


and the fight goes on

by wordswithdragons



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23366635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswithdragons/pseuds/wordswithdragons
Summary: A series of post season three drabbles about those who survive, and those who grow. Currently including but not limited to: Ezran contemplates Viren's death; Claudia and Rayla talk, post-redemption; King Ahling wakes up; Runaan gets out of the coin; Viren comes to terms with his new condition; Janai's first birthday post-s3.
Relationships: Ahling & Kasef (The Dragon Prince), Amaya/Janai (The Dragon Prince), Claudia & Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Corvus/Gren (The Dragon Prince), Ezran & Viren (The Dragon Prince), Janai & Khessa (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 79





	1. i. ezran (and viren)

_“Godfather? Me?”_

It was a memory Ezran had asked from his Dad many times, largely due to it being one of the rare stories of him and his mother—him, swaddled in Katolian red, sleeping and newly born—but now he wished he hadn’t, as he sat on the lowest ledge of the Spire and looked out onto the empty battlefield. 

Especially not since—

_“Yes, you,” Sarai says, smiling and inclining her head. Viren’s face wears a mix of delighted surprise. “With Amaya as godmother,” she adds, Harrow wrapping an arm around her, her sister by her side. Sarai turns cheeky. “Hopefully Ezran is something you two can always see eye to eye on.”_

Ezran saw him _die_. It wasn’t real but it _looked_ real, and he’d never seen someone die before, not that close, not—

He buried his face in his hands and let out a choked sob, the full weight of the past few weeks—the past month, if he was being honest—pressing down on him in a crushing weight. He’d known Viren. His godfather, his father’s best friend, friendly once upon a time, grown up with his children. And gods, what had happened to Claudia too? And the war was over, but it’d still taken both his parents, and Ezran—

“Ez?”

Soft footfalls. Ezran shoulder’s slumped as Rayla ambled over and sat beside him, concern painted on her face amid the moonlight. Ezran wiped hurriedly at his face but it did little to stem the flow. “S-sorry, I—”

Rayla wrapped an arm tight around his shoulders, her brow furrowed. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.” Her lips purse. “What’s wrong, Ezran?”

He swallowed and looked over to the bend of the spire, where the Pinnacle rounded off. Her grip slackened when she understood, before she pulled him closer. Soren had told her and his brother what happened, once they’d landed and all reunited; Ezran had been shaking as badly as Soren’s voice, in the aftermath.

“It’s alright, Ezran,” Rayla said, something firm and gentle in her voice. “Viren can never hurt you again.” She, of course, had made sure of it.

(Even if it was disconcerting they hadn’t been able to find a body yet, but the battlefield was wide and it’d only been a couple of days since the battle. Ezran wasn’t sure if he wanted them to find the body and see what’d become of his father’s old advisor, anyway.)

Ezran shook his head, face screwed up miserably. “I don’t even know why I’m upset,” he croaked out. There’d been no love in his heart for Viren. Not after the abdication. And yet…

Rayla carded a hand through his hair. “It’s okay,” she said, more softly. “Feelings are complicated.” 

“You sound like Callum,” Ezran sniffled. Like big feelings time when they were little. 

Somewhere deep down though, he was glad it was Rayla here and not his brother, even if that immediately brought a rush of guilt. But it was easier with Rayla, to talk about this, even if he barely could. Maybe it was because of not having to contend with her own feelings about Viren; she’d hated the man since day one. That had never changed.

Rayla glanced back over her shoulder, thinking of the rooms in the spire where everyone else was sleeping, his brother included. Ezran thought of how Rayla had been ready to die, too. (Maybe that was why she couldn’t sleep, either). How close he’d coming to losing another friend, another family member, and not because of betrayal.

Rayla looked back at him, her eyes wide but steady. “You’re going to be okay, Ez,” she promised, hugging him with both arms this time. “Callum and I aren’t going anywhere. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.” 

He shut his eyes, melting into her.

_Ezran is awake and holds onto his larger finger with a tiny fist. Viren’s voice, mellow and warm. “I’ll suppose I’ll just have to look after you, little king, won’t I?”_

Some part of him wondered if this was what it would’ve been like for his mother to hold him, if she’d been able, when the last dam inside him and he sobbed. Rayla held him until he stopped, letting him draw away first and wiping at his tears with her thumbs.

“Better?”

“A little,” he admitted, mostly because he didn’t want to disappoint her best efforts. His chest still ached, but he did feel slightly lighter. “Thanks Rayla.”

They walked back to the cave hand in hand, back to the corner where Callum was sleeping, curled up by his scarf. Even from just a quick glance as they settled down beside him, Ezran could see the love in her eyes when she looked at his brother. He wondered if they’d get married some day, and have a child. Callum would insist on him being godfather for sure.

Ezran frowned at the happy thought, because he would accept, of course.

But he would never, ever, be like Viren.


	2. i. claudia (and rayla)

Claudia’s fingers trace her wrist, the black garment now frayed, remembering when her magicked snake chains use to rest. She can’t look at the elf sitting across from her. “Why don’t you hate me the way he does?”

Moonlight makes her hair shine brighter white. Claudia doesn’t want to think about how their hair nearly matches, the thought sticking uncomfortably in her throat. Ezran and Soren had welcomed her back with bone crushing hugs (not literally, thankfully). But Callum… 

“You hated me because I was an elf,” the girl, Rayla, says. “It wasn’t personal. You and him… I don’t think I need to _spell_ that one out for you.”

Remnants of dark magic hardens like tar on her tongue, in the backs of her eyes. Looking at Rayla makes them easier to blink away. “We both know I’ve done worse since then.”

“I’m best friends with the people I was supposed to kill,” Rayla says. _Vile, bloodthirsty elven assassin_. They’re older now. Rayla doesn’t wear a braid in her hair anymore. Claudia wouldn’t even know how to tell she thought it was cute even if she wanted to. “I know what it’s like to go down a path because someone you love tells you the right one, and you want to believe it is so badly, because it feels easier. Even if it’s harder.” 

Rayla turns violent eyes on her—almost inhuman, if they weren’t so understanding, if not also sympathetic.“Until the hardest part comes, of admitting you were wrong. I know what it’s like to go looking for redemption.”

“Yeah,” she puffs out.

Rayla pushes herself up and off the window seat at the Banther Lodge. Claudia’s shawl isn’t thick enough, the glass frosting over, but it doesn’t seem like Rayla wants to sit in the cold any longer. (Claudia doesn’t know how to get warm.)

“I’m going to bed,” she says and Claudia gives her a numb nod in response. “It’ll get easier, day by day.” Another nod. Claudia doesn’t know why Rayla is giving her so much sympathy. Or how to accept it, really. Callum had said she was kind; maybe he was right. Rayla hovers before she goes up the steps. “He didn’t trust me at first, either,” she says, and then goes.

Claudia mulls over the thought and the girl in her head, before going up to her guest room.

They’ve all changed, clearly. Maybe she doesn’t have to change for the worst, anymore.


	3. i. king ahling (and kasef)

When King Ahling wakes up, the world is different. The world is fuzzy and pain filled, his vision blurry before he blinks it away. The healers make him drink water and potions in equal measure. They don’t beat around the bush. _You are very lucky to be alive, Your Majesty._

He knows, but also knows that the attack that very nearly took him also could have taken his children. _Kasef, Somil, are they alright?_ His sons, age nineteen and twelve respectively. He remembers the blood and shadow of the attack, doesn’t think the assassin would’ve been able to make it to his children down the hall, but he does not know.

The healer’s face pinches. She doesn’t answer. _Somil will see you now_ , she says, finally, stepping away.

The reunion between father and child is private, as Ahling sweeps his youngest into his arms as much as he can, Somil’s face buried in his neck; he can feel the wetness of tears on the young boy’s face. _Papa, I was so_ —Ahling cups the back of his head, weak fingers threading through longer black hair. _I know,_ he says. _I was scared too._

It’s when they are facing each other that Ahling asks, _Where is your brother?_ Kasef would have been acting king, in his absence, likely under the assumption that his father wouldn’t have recovered. Hopefully this can just be seen as a brief, preparatory stint. He loves his son but Kasef wasn’t ready to eat his vegetables, let alone be king. It would have been good, if sad, practice, though. Maybe Kasef will have even surprised him; stranger things have happened, and—

Somil’s dark eye catches his, and weight of realization knocks all the air out of him. He knows he’s only been out of it for three weeks at most. Knows that the assassin is gone. Knows that his youngest survived, and—now his only—

Years ago, Ahling promised himself that he would never cry in front of his sons. Not because it is weakness, but because he always wanted to be cheery, a positive force around them, especially as Kasef grew grumpier as he grew older.

And now he will be young forever, at nineteen years old.

Ahling breaks, his promise and his breath, sobs spilling out as he clutches Somil to his chest and feels the child break too. For the first time, he is glad his wife passed when Somil was little, if only so she wouldn’t know this pain, because this—this is worse than death—

Ahling holds Somil tighter, even as words break free too, and Somil curls closer because they are the only people in the world who can understand the weight of one another’s grief, even if it is not quite the same. Even if it can never be enough.

“That’s my son,” Ahling chokes out. “That’s my boy.” 

There is barely a body to bury. 


	4. i. runaan (and callum)

The first thing Runaan sees when he gets out of the coin is Ethari: crying, smiling, beautiful, sweeping him up into his arms. Runaan’s horn still aches, body sore—the arm that had been bound is impossible to feel quite right, so he’ll gauge it later—but all he feels is relief, and love. Somehow, by all miracles, he’s home, back in the arms of the person he loves. This time, Ethari cups his jaw and kisses him, soft and slow, coaxing him to remember how to be a person no longer bound.

Runaan beams at him, tears in their eyes, when they draw apart. Then, fidgeting beyond Ethari’s left shoulder, is Rayla. Taller than when he last saw her, in silvery Dragon Guard armour, her hair a little shorter, but still the same girl, the same daughter. It’s then that Runaan is able to take in his surroundings. The storm spire. The dragon coming up to Rayla’s waist, spry and young and of the sky. The Dragon Prince, now hatched. King?

Rayla’s face is plain, terror and love shining in her eyes, and Runaan isn’t cruel enough—to himself or to her—to do anything other than rush forward and embrace her. Rayla breaks in his arms and he cups the back of her head. It’s when she’s done crying that Ethari takes his hand, and they sit him down, with food and water in a little tray for him, and explain.

How the war between Xadia and the Pentarchy is over, that Rayla had finished her mission of bringing the egg back to the Dragon Queen. It’s the bare bones, but it’s good catch up all the same, even if they are a million other questions he wants answered (like her parents, they were in the coins too, are they out as well—)

They tell him how they figured out where and what he was imprisoned in, the Dark Mage Viren, and Rayla’s voice catches when she says how they got him out.

“It required two arcanums,” she said, “moon and earth—death and metal—Callum charmed you out. He’s a Mage now.”

The memory of his last free night flashes in his mind. Rayla on the roof with the two princes. _Callum, Ezran, go._ The older boy had hesitated. 

It’s then that the light at the mouth of their cave parts, and that boy—older still now, perhaps by a year—walks in. There’s Skywing runes tattooed on his arms and a steely look in his eyes, but he softens when Rayla looks at him and Ethari smiles, so Runaan’s guard only goes up halfway.

The boy looks at him, not taking a seat, and Runaan looks back, knowing they’re both thinking about the same moment: the _shing_ of his blades when he’d slain the boy’s father.

“Was it quick?” the prince says, voice unreadable, and somehow also surprisingly measured.

Runaan hears what he actually wants to know. _Was it painless?_ Runaan gives a slight nod, his tone stiff. “Yes.” 

The boy swallows, as though processing, and then blinks. “That’s all I needed to know.” Then the shift as he turns to Rayla, bends down, and kisses the side of her head as though it’s as easy as breathing. “I’m right here if you need me,” he murmurs, and she smiles and squeezes his hand before he goes again. Possibly to some place on the spire that they both know well.

Runaan adds it to his list of his questions, once he catches Ethari’s warning eye: there will be time for it later.

For now, he leans forward and lets his husband and daughter share what they will, what they think is important.

He’s just glad to be home.


	5. ii. claudia

Claudia dyes her hair.

She goes strand by strand, her fingers stained black as she lets the dye set, a basin of warm water on the vanity as she reapplies. Fresh water is still an anomaly to her, after years out the outskirts, scavenging through Xadia, flocking to her father’s side, but—

Claudia looses a breath ( _there’s no synonym for cinnamon_ ) and focuses on the next strand. The white is so pervasive there’s hardly a hair on her head that doesn’t need the dye, now, only a few natural black streaks remaining. Desperate, it hadn’t taken much for Viren to convince her to give away the rest, in the months, years, following his fall. Until she’d learned to stand without him. 

Soren had helped her up. Held her up when her legs turned weak upon her return to the castle. Ezran had looked at her with forgiveness in his eyes, and she hadn’t deserved it. Callum had been understandably curt and she couldn’t hold it against him. She’d been fine, relatively, with it all, until she’d seen the elf’s—Rayla’s, she corrects, catching herself—white hair, adorned with moonlight and Callum’s kisses, and grown far too self conscious of her own, but hers was the sign of all her sins.

She doesn’t want the judgement, doesn’t want the weight, even when Soren’s eyes remained steady and kind. _I’m your brother, as you know, and I’m always there for you, for whatever you need._

He’d silently brought her the tiny pot of dye and left it in her room.

Part of her wonders if it’s wrong to cover her past up and pretend it didn’t happen. But no, she thinks, she’s not covering it. She’s… moving on. Going back to who she used to be, before. Going forward as someone better. Taking herself _back_. Strand by strand.

Soren smiles when he comes to her in the day, her hair finished and dried—more or less permanent—and they sip on cups of hot brown morning potion. Wraps his arm around her shoulders. “It’s good to have you back, Clauds.” 


	6. i. viren

He doesn’t breathe right, afterwards.

The air rattles too loosely in his lungs. His heartbeat is always off by a second. Sense of hunger always more muted than it should be. He needs less sleep. He feels more tired than ever. Memories are more vivid, though. Skirting away from the Spire in the dead of night, the blue slimy baby that became Aaravos in his daughter’s sagging arms, picking through Xadia for resources, for somewhere safe.

Even now, Claudia sleeps restlessly beside him as he stares up at the stars. Viren wonders when his eyes stopped holding reflections properly, the light slightly fractured, particularly in his right eye. The permanent damage Aaravos wrought would have been a small to pay, if everything had gone according to plan.

If anything ever would.

 _We just have to be patient,_ Aaravos whispers in his ear, young looking like a child but unnaturally tall to reach. _You’ll have your revenge. Your throne. Humanity will bow at your feet. Xadia will be yours_.

Viren isn’t sure if he believes him, any more. But what more can he do? Aaravos is useful, still vulnerable. If the connection gets worse - if that elven monster creeps too close to Claudia - Viren knows he could kill the damn thing and be done with it. Maybe even take Claudia somewhere to the far swamps of Evenere and hide themselves away, build a new life. He doesn’t want to think of his son. He’s known for a while that Soren too far gone, but it still stung when Claudia told him that—

In a way, it’s good at he needs to eat and sleep less. There’s more for Claudia and they don’t have to sleep in shifts, really. Aaravos never sleeps, slithering tongue showing whenever he eats the bugs and whatever else he needs for sustenance. Viren doesn’t ask. 

(Sometimes it’s better not to know.)

He doesn’t ask what Claudia killed to bring him “back to life.” Necromancy is not a facet of Dark Magic he dabbled in, if one could even dabble in something that costly. Sees the reminder of the price Claudia paid in the white of her hair every day. She’s losing more streaks of black, as they do what they have to do to survive stranded in the Xadian wild, and then some.

He doesn’t thank her for it, even if he’s glad (most of the time) that he’s alive.

‘Alive.’ 

He can’t thank her for it, because he knows it’s not true.

He’s never been so much of a skin and a skeleton before, even when living on borrowed time. (When he performs Dark Magic of his own, his mind races. Blood congeals, cold and leaking. He’s not alive. He’s barely a body. A reanimated corpse—)

 _Alive_.

Yeah, right.


	7. i. janai

It’s her first birthday without Khessa. Perhaps anyone else would be too busy as queen to think of it — Lux Aurea’s reconstruction slows for no one — but Janai has always been good at thinking more than was perhaps good _for_ her. She can remember her youth. _I want to be more than just a princess_ , she remembers thinking, setting her sights on general. She never expected queen to join those titles.

In some ways, Janai is glad she’s busy. She’s never been one for parties, either, but just quietness would give her more time to dwell. Her brother’s diplomatic business has his outside the city too, as rain delayed his travels, and Janai finishes a midday meal of soft bread and rose jam out on her private balcony. At the very least, she can overlook her city and know her people are safe and healing. That’s enough.

Then, she supposes, the universe decides to do her one better when she sees a raven flying towards her balcony, black with a carrier bearing the seal of Katolis. The bird lands on her spindly golden table, claws clinking against her plate. Janai runs a finger under its chin before taking out the letter and letting it fly off. 

A letter from Amaya at the Breach, she knows, even before she unfurls it and sees her name printed in General’s lean slant. Her chest warms as she tries to read the letter slowly, to savour it. Lingers without trying on the general’s birthday well wishes. _I’ll have to throw you a surprise party one year,_ she’s written. Janai can perfectly picture her cocky wink and has to fight off a slight laugh. (She can’t fight off her fondness — not that she wants to). 

Janai might just have to let her, personal party preferences be damned.


	8. gren/corvus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set immediately post 3x09

“So, Amaya and Janai, huh?”

The Spire is quiet, but Corvus has never known Gren to be one to follow suit, so he’s not surprised the other man is talking. Gren talking had become the basic background noise of Corvus’ life in some years when training for the Katolian army, whether Gren was translating for the General or not. Nor does Corvus mind his chatter. There is a lot to catch up and a lot of pieces to put together, even if none of them have many answers concerning the general they serve; it had just been a relief to meet back up together in Duren, when everything had gone south in Katolis.

Gren had told him Amaya was most likely dead, but there had been little time for Corvus to believe it and process and grieve before it had been proven miraculously, beautifully, untrue. 

Still, Gren knows more about what Amaya’s been up to the past couple of weeks — captured by Sunfire elves and there when Lux Aurea fell — just as Corvus knows more about what the princes have been up to, which Gren is also rapt to know. Especially since both aunt and nephew seem to have new elf friends.

“Amaya certainly seems pleased,” Corvus comments. The short time he’s seen them together, Janai and Soren checking Amaya over after the battle for any more serious injuries, he can’t begrudge the elf. Especially when Rayla had proven to him over two weeks ago that elves were hardly evil.

“I thought she’d get a relationship after the war,” Gren reveals, “not during.”

“Well, she’s always been an over-achiever.” Like her youngest nephew. Ezran is curled up with the Dragon Prince by the queen’s claw, most of the elves and humans asleep in the immediate antechamber, as it’s warmer and not everyone has blankets. Part of Corvus wonders why he and Gren haven’t followed suit, but he feels both more awake and exhausted than ever.

It’s really done. He won’t be needed as a tracker or a spy. He’ll go back to Katolis with Ezran, of course. He feels responsible for the boy, and has quickly become fond of him, too. He’s a good kid. The more people he has looking out for him, the better. As for Gren, Corvus thinks he’ll go wherever Amaya goes, but that hasn’t always been true. And who knows where Amaya will go now. To Katolis with her nephew, to help rebuild their army? To the breach to safeguard until peace is more permanent? Or even with the woman who fought beside her?

Gren must be having similar thoughts, because he says, “Yeah. Wonder where that leaves both of us.”

Their lives had been service and their identities soldiers, in a way, for so long. Who will they be now? At the very least, Corvus knows he wants them to stay _friends_.

“You’re free to come back to Katolis with us,” he says quietly, and Gren catches his eye and grins, soft and dimpled. Freckles clear in the low light. “If you’d like to. And if you don’t… would you like to write me?”

Gren lights up with an excited whisper. “We could be pen pals!”

Corvus chuckles, because it is the answer he expected. He stares at the man a second longer when he turns away. 

Well. At least Corvus knows one thing for certain: he could expect long, ten page letters from Gren sometime very soon.

(The man must surely write as much as he talks.)


	9. i. ethari (+ ezran)

The first time Ethari meets Ezran, he isn’t sure what to think. The first time he met Callum he knew the kid’s name and race and nothing else, knew him as Rayla’s weird human friend before the history of _prince_ and the _assassination_ and _Runaan_ —

With Ezran there is no grace period. He knows that this is the king of Katolis, a child robbed of his father (his remaining parent, Callum confirmed) and his childhood in one fell swoop. A lover of sweets and mind-linked to the Dragon Prince. Callum and Rayla say he’s good natured, and Ethari is sure that he is, but this is a new member of Rayla’s family, and—

Ethari is not easily nervous, but he is now, waiting for Rayla and Callum to retrieve Ezran from the outside of the Silvergrove’s enchantments and to use Rayla’s key to bring him in. He’s seen glimpses of Callum’s sketches, knows the boy is young and bright eyed, but—

Nothing can prepare him for the way everything hits him once Ezran opens the door. He’s younger than he looks in Callum’s sketches, with big hair and a laughing face, blue eyes set against Katolian red of his tunic. He’s not wearing a crown but Ethari can see the vague indents from where it would normally sit.

Then Ezran beams at him and extends a five fingered hand. “Ethari. It’s nice to meet you.” 

No hesitance, no anger, no reservation, nothing. And not for lack of feeling. Ezran’s eyes are bright but they look old, too, in a way that only a child’s whose seen too much and lost too much can. But in lack of hatred. From a willingness to try.

It’s only right, Ethari supposes, that he tries right back. He shakes the boy king’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, shaking it and losing the title that rises naturally—to form a wall, a distance—on his tongue. “Ezran."


End file.
